


The Winter Wolf

by betts



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Red Riding Hood Elements, Werewolf Bucky Barnes, glaring anachronisms, not omegaverse just normal werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 08:09:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28348185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betts/pseuds/betts
Summary: Though Steve had been through the deep dark woods to visit the Scarlet Witch many times, this time he encountered a big bad wolf. A cold wind swept up, and a chill ran down Steve’s back.Perhaps if our hero were slightly less of an idiot, he would have noted said chill and run away. But that would make our story quite short. There is a reason people smart enough to run away from danger are not the subject of grand stories. (Coincidentally, they do often live longer lives.) Steve, shouldering the burden of narrative conflict, chose not to run away, but instead set his basket of magic apples down and raised his fists.Or: A fairy tale about a young apple-picker and the mysterious wolf that protects his magic apple tree.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 9
Kudos: 82
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	The Winter Wolf

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ZepysGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZepysGirl/gifts).



> Major thanks to ZepysGirl for being amenable to this weird idea I had! I just really enjoy fairy tales and fun narrative styles.
> 
> Not beta'd. Apologies for any errors.

Once upon a time there was a young apple-picker whose ma was very ill. One day, he ventured into the deep dark woods to visit the Scarlet Witch, who gave him the special potion that kept his mother alive. The young apple-picker did not have very much money, and so he traded with the only thing of value he had: his apples. These were not just any apples, though. They were magic apples, capable of curing minor injuries. Eating one apple could close up a cut, reset a bone, fill a cavity. However, they were useless against illnesses like Ma’s, the kind that ate you up from the inside. They were also useless against major injuries, like being pierced in the chest with a stray flaming arrow shot by an inebriated circus performer, which was how the young apple-picker’s father had died.

The magic apple tree had grown from a special stone the young apple-picker’s grandfather found many years ago. He knew the stone was very precious, and so he buried it deep in the earth. The next morning, he awoke to a large tree of golden apples. Before the magic apple tree, the family had been quite poor, but for two generations now, they were able to sell and trade their apples for food and clothing, and also a not-insignificant amount of income went to the young apple-picker’s hair pomade, as a treat. Recently, however, the yield was shrinking, the tree seeming reluctant to grow much of anything. What was once shiny, gold fruit was now a rusted color, and the apples were small and bitter. But they still worked, and so the apple-picker continued picking them.

Back to the deep dark woods. It’s important that you know the young apple-picker was not wearing a red hood, as these things often go. He was wearing a very cool-looking leather jacket, because he was a cool-looking guy (hence the hair pomade). He was small of stature but exceedingly handsome, like a tiny proletariat prince. This will become relevant during the romance portion of the story. He seemed to have no idea of his diminutive size, though, and held himself as if he were much larger. He believed he could handle anything, and was more than willing to get into a fight with anyone, at any time, for any reason. Once, drunk, he had fought a particularly threatening scarecrow, lost badly, and had to eat two magic apples to recover. Despite his bravado, he was, in fact, just as fragile (and beautiful!) as fine crystal. This will become relevant during the getting-his-ass-handed-to-him portion of the story, which is going to happen very soon.

Most of the village was afraid of the deep dark woods and avoided it at all costs. The young, cool-looking but tiny and ferocious apple-picker — Steve. His name was Steve. I’m just going to call him Steve — was not afraid of anything, though, and had no problems venturing into the deep dark woods to visit the Scarlet Witch, who had chosen to live in said deep dark woods to keep overly friendly and curious people such as Steve away. There was nothing particularly weird or off-putting about her; she was just an introvert. 

Though Steve had been through the deep dark woods to visit the Scarlet Witch many times, this time he encountered a big bad wolf. The big bad wolf was far bigger than any wolf Steve had ever seen — and to Steve, wolves were already very big — and meaner, too, with dirty grey-brown fur and piercingly human eyes. Though Steve could only see one, he heard the soft cracking and rustling of the rest of the pack hidden in the brush, a low howl in the far distance. Several glowing pairs of eyes blinked in the darkness. A cold wind swept up, and a chill ran down Steve’s back.

Perhaps if our hero were slightly less of an idiot, he would have noted the chill and run away. But that would make our story quite short. There is a reason people smart enough to run away from danger are not the subject of grand stories. (Coincidentally, they do often live longer lives.) Steve, shouldering the burden of narrative conflict, chose not to run away, but instead set his basket of magic apples down and raised his fists.

Steve realized the wolf wasn’t looking at him at all, but past him to the basket of apples. He bent down, took one from the basket, and threw it into the woods. The wolf crept closer. Steve threw another apple. The wolf bared its teeth and began to growl. The closer it got, the more human its eyes looked.

“You want the whole basket, you fucker? Is that it?” Steve said.

The wolf lunged. Steve stumbled back and tripped on a root. He fell, cutting open his palm on a branch. He had let go of the basket on his way down, and the apples tumbled out of it. The wolf was momentarily distracted, and Steve, whose vaguely functional survivalist instinct had finally kicked in, took the opportunity to run back the way he came. The wolf did not follow.

At home, Steve found his ma asleep in her rocking chair in front of the fire. A while back, Dr. Banner had told them Ma didn’t have much time left. The Scarlet Witch’s potion could draw it out a little longer, maybe a year or more, but it would be a painful and slow death, and the trek to the Scarlet Witch’s cottage was a dangerous one. And so every month or so, Steve set out to trade his apples for the potion. This was the first time he had returned empty-handed.

He was tempted to eat an apple to cure the cut on his palm, but thought better of it. They would need to save their supply. And so he bandaged his injured hand, and vowed to journey into the woods again the following night. Next time, he would be ready.

* * *

Steve awakened the next morning to the first bitter cold of the year, grass whitened with frost, his breath clouding in front of him as he opened the apple barrel to find only the worst of the yield remaining. It used to be his ma would take the bad apples and make sauce, butter, cider, juice. Back then, Steve could afford to buy pomade by the barrel, but Ma was too sick and weak to make anything anymore, and so all Steve could do was go door to door, town to town, selling what he could.

He was down to his last tin of pomade. He dipped his comb in it, slicked his hair back, and put on his cool-looking jacket. His ma was asleep but he kissed the top of her head goodbye, made sure she had plenty of firewood, and set out for the day’s work just as the morning sun was breaking over the horizon.

First he went to the baker, who was just pulling out the first loaves of the day. Steve traded an apple for a loaf of bread, and the baker threw in a some butter too. Steve ate breakfast out on the stoop, tearing off just a small piece of the loaf, still warm and soft, and ate it with some butter as he watched the sun rise above the trees.

Used to be, this time of day the town would already be bustling, people out and about, running their errands and doing their work. Merchants with their carts lining the streets. Buskers playing music for coin. Actors passing out flyers for the evening’s play at the theater. Back then, King Alexander reigned, and he wasn’t a good king but he was good enough that people had no reason to think about the royal goings-on in their day to day lives, because he never did anything good or bad enough to warrant anybody’s attention. And that was how politics should be, Steve thought. If you can’t be good, the next best thing is to be invisible.

For a long time Steve had figured the town was too far out to be affected by major shifts in governance, except as a point of small talk, but then the throne was usurped by a tyrant named Thanos. Travelers reported that Thanos was three times the size of a man and also purple. Steve hadn’t put much stock into the news. The country falling under the rule of a giant evil purple monster just seemed a little too far-fetched even for him, the owner of a magic apple tree.

Before Thanos, Steve would sell his apples and run his errands, and he’d stop and chat with passersby. Sometimes he stood in the street and juggled his apples for coin thrown at his feet. Not anymore. Now, the town was empty but for Thanos’ guard patrolling the streets. They wore black armor and helmets, broadswords at their back. A dark mist had fallen over the town, and all that could be heard was the caw of an occasional crow.

Steve continued on his journey, ducking into alleys to avoid the royal guard, whom he feared would steal his apples as they had the first (and last) time he got caught selling them. He went from merchant to merchant, door to door of the few townspeople who knew him, who wouldn’t rat him out to the guard for selling goods without a merchant’s license.

The day’s bounty was as good as he could ask for: bread, a leg of lamb, a few ears of corn, some thread to repair the tears in his clothes. Hopefully it would be enough to get him through until the next harvest. He had only a few more apples, but he had to save them for Ma’s potion when he returned to the deep dark woods later that night.

As evening descended on the town, Steve stopped at the tavern to visit his friend Natasha. Outside, the weather was cold and the streets desolate, but inside was warm and welcoming, packed with travelers and townspeople. A band was playing in the corner. Steve took his usual seat at the bar and watched Natasha flip bottles around for tips. By the time she was finished, ten shot glasses had been filled, and the drunken crowd around her cheered. She bowed and left them to take their shots.

She filled a mug from the keg and passed it over to Steve. He didn’t usually drink, only ever came by to listen to music and see Natasha. He knew he wouldn’t be able to stay long — he had to go home and make sure ma was okay, and then he had to venture into the deep dark woods once more.

“Compliments of the gentleman in the corner,” Natasha said.

Steve caught sight of a man in the corner, sitting in the shadows. He was wearing black armor like the royal guard, which was not made of metal but an enchanted fabric that couldn’t be pierced or slashed apart. The man’s armor was faded and worn, and his hood obscured his face.

“Who is he?” Steve asked.

“You should go say hi,” Natasha said mysteriously, and went off to refill someone’s mead.

Steve wandered over. When he reached the table, he held out his last remaining apple and said, “Magic apple to heal all your wounds?”

“I’m afraid my wounds can’t be healed by something so trite.”

The man lowered his hood. Steve froze. “Bucky?”

Bucky was the same as he had always been, handsome in a boyish way, except now there was a darkened, hardened edge to him, an impression that might have been caused by the giant fucking scar down his face.

“Who the hell is Bucky?”

His eyes were blank, empty, like someone had reached inside him and tore out his spirit. Steve was unable to speak. What had happened to his best friend? Who had done this to him?

“Nah, I’m just kidding,” Bucky said, breaking into a smile as he stood and hugged Steve tightly. When he let go, he clapped Steve on the back, hard, and Steve nearly fell over.

“Fuck, man. Don’t scare me.”

“You know I couldn’t pass up an opportunity like that. Sit down. Drink with me.”

They sat down. Steve’s heart hammered in his chest. He couldn’t look away from Bucky. From the scar. From his thankfully now-warm eyes that were not different at all from the ones he used to know. After all these years missing him, mourning him, here he was. Different, but the same. For years, they’d spent every moment of every day together. Naively, Steve thought they’d be together forever. But Bucky came from a family of traveling performers, and one day Steve woke up to find the field where they had settled empty, the only proof they’d been there the flattened grass of their camp, the long-dead pit of ashes that had once been a fire.

Bucky reached across the table and took Steve’s bandaged hand, easy as breathing, like they’d only been apart a few hours and not several years. “You go around selling magic healing apples with a bum hand, it doesn’t say much for your product.”

Steve tugged his hand away. He couldn’t meet Bucky’s eyes. “I couldn’t afford to have one.”

“How much they cost?”

“Just a coin.”

Bucky slid a coin over and took Steve’s last apple. He pulled out a knife, sliced a piece of it off, and held it out to Steve. Reluctantly Steve took it, ate it. Pulled the bandage off his hand and watched the cut disappear.

“Thanks,” Steve said, knowing he shouldn’t feel embarrassed — it was Bucky, after all, basically his other half — but he did.

“So what’s going on?” Bucky asked.

Steve let out a long breath. He didn’t even know where to begin. He had a thousand questions for Bucky — Where had he gone? Why did it take him so long to come back? Why did he come back at all? What was with the scar? Why was he wearing royal guard armor? Was he gay? Or bi maybe? If so, now that they were older, could they please make out a little and also possibly do other things of a physical nature?

Emotionally speaking, Steve was concerned about the armor and the scar and the many years’ disappearance. Hornily speaking, he was feeling a little overwhelmed.

“Ma is dying,” Steve admitted, wanting to get the worst thing out of the way first. And because he’d kept all the stress locked up inside him for so long, and the ale had gone quickly to his head, he found himself telling Bucky the entire story, from Dr. Banner’s diagnosis, to the Scarlet Witch’s cottage, to the dying magic tree, and finally, “I’m running out of pomade,” Steve said, head in his hands.

“There, there,” Bucky said, patting his shoulder. “Having bad hair can’t be that awful. I mean, I wouldn’t know, but…”

Bucky’s hair was much longer now, and he kept it pulled back, and Steve once again got distracted with thoughts of an inappropriate nature.

“So how’d you lose the apples?” Bucky asked casually.

“Ran into some wolves in the deep dark woods on my way to the Scarlet Witch’s cottage to trade my magic apples.” He paused. “Wow, it sounds crazy when I say it out loud.”

“What kind of wolves?”

“Big ones. Like, huge.”

“What about their eyes?”

“They were glowing, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Shit,” Bucky said. “Look, promise me you’re not going to go back there.”

“I have to, Buck. Actually, it’s getting late. I should head out.” Before Bucky could interrupt him with more useless protests, Steve asked, “Hey, are you staying in town a while?”

“Probably,” Bucky said bitterly. Steve didn’t have time to ask.

“Okay, well, I’ll see you tomorrow then? Assuming I don’t die?”

Bucky cracked a wan smile. “Big assumption for such a small guy.”

Steve was barely aware of his own goofy grin. “I’m glad you’re back, Buck. Really.”

* * *

When Steve arrived home, he found his ma huddled in bed under a mountain of blankets, hardly having moved from when he left. He made her sit up and eat some bread, and promised that tomorrow he’d fix lamb stew. She wasn’t all there anymore, hadn’t seemed to notice that Steve had even left, or that he’d returned. Once she’d fallen back asleep, Steve packed up his remaining apples and went to leave. Just before he reached the door, he paused and looked at the family crest above the mantle, a round shield with a star at the center, and pulled a chair over to take it down.

Shield on his arm and basket in hand, he ventured again into the deep dark woods. He didn’t make it far before he heard a low growl off to the side, and saw glowing eyes watching him in the dark. A wolf leapt onto the path, the same ugly one from the night before.

Steve raised his shield. “Here, take it, you motherfucker,” he said, and threw the basket as far away from himself as he could. As soon as the wolf dashed after it, Steve ran. It had been a decoy, of course — the basket was empty, the apples safely tucked away in the pockets of Steve’s cool-looking leather jacket.

He ran and ran, but he didn’t make it far before he felt a clenching sensation in his chest like a fist squeezing his lungs, and suddenly he couldn’t drag in a single breath. Stars swam in his vision but he continued forward, struggling to breathe, sure by now he was close to the Scarlet Witch’s cottage. His knees then buckled, and he fell. The entire pack was behind him, advancing on him, and he could do nothing but cower beneath his shield.

The ugly wolf — who was clearly, Steve could see now, the alpha of the pack — lunged at him. Steve curled into a ball, the shield covering his entire body. He braced himself for impact, to be dragged out and torn to shreds.

Nothing happened.

Steve peeked out from beneath his shield and saw another wolf, this one covered in black fur that it could barely be seen in the dark, like a shifting void of space. The dark wolf attacked the alpha, and the two wolves fought while the rest of the pack began to recede into the woods.

It was a violent battle. By the light of the moon, Steve could see blood glittering on the path. He had never seen a fight between animals so trained and strategic, like a swordfight. The dark wolf bit into the alpha’s shoulder. The alpha yelped loudly, an agonized sound that pierced Steve’s ears and made him flinch.

Finally the alpha backed away, growling and limping as if warning the dark wolf this wasn’t over. The dark wolf stayed until the pack was gone, a low growl in its throat. Steve got to his feet and slowly approached, his shield still raised.

As soon as Steve touched the wolf, it startled and shrank away, its ears back. A small whine escaped its throat. Its eyes glowed blue. Steve could see a bloody gash around its neck.

“You’re hurt,” Steve said, and pulled an apple out of his pocket. He held it out, but the wolf made no move to take it. “It’s okay. It’s magic. It’ll heal you.”

The wolf took a step back and shook its head as if to say no. Could it understand him?

“Okay, well, I’ll just leave it here then.” Steve set the apple down and took a few steps back.

The wolf went up and sniffed the apple, and took it carefully into its mouth. It hesitated a moment, then dashed away into the woods.

* * *

Steve arrived at the Scarlet Witch’s cottage. She opened the door before he even knocked.

“You’re limping,” she said. The Scarlet Witch was young and beautiful, not at all the hideous, vile woman people often described her as. She had long auburn hair and red eyes. She always seemed to know when Steve was coming, and always had a cup of tea ready for him when he arrived.

Steve took a seat in her enormous cozy arm chair. From the outside, the cottage looked old and run-down, barely standing. But it was just an illusion. Inside was warm and tastefully decorated, with bundles of herbs hanging above the fireplace and jars and books lining the walls.

“Twisted my ankle,” Steve explained. “Wolves.” He pulled his apples out of his pocket and set them on the table.

“Only two?” she asked, setting down his tea.

“Wolves,” he explained again. “I don’t know what they want with my apples. Wolves don’t even like apples.”

“The seeds,” the Scarlet Witch said distantly as she moved bottles around on a shelf.

“Wolves don’t like apple seeds, either.”

She found the bottle she was looking for and poured its contents into a cauldron. “Perhaps they’re not normal wolves. And perhaps the seeds are not normal seeds.”

“I don’t know, I’ve tried planting them loads of times and nothing ever grows.”

“Maybe it’s not a tree they’re trying to grow.”

Steve had to think about that. The Scarlet Witch went about her potion-making and hummed a song that sounded like a lullaby. The tea and the fire and the day’s events made him sleepy, and he promised himself he would only rest his eyes a moment.

* * *

“Boy,” a voice said from a great distance. “Boy, wake up.”

Steve awoke to a stiffness in his neck. He was still in the Scarlet Witch’s cabin, and he didn’t know how long he’d been out. The Scarlet Witch was looking down at him, a vial of potion held out. He took it.

“Thanks,” he said. “Sorry I fell asleep.”

“Be gone with you,” she told him, ushering him out. “Tell your mother I said hello,” she added with a little shove at his back, then, “I hope you have a lovely day,” and shut the door.

The sun had yet to rise but the sky was the dark blue of morning. Steve made it several paces before he realized there was no pain in his ankle, and the stiffness and soreness of his muscles was gone. He took a deep breath and his lungs filled happily with the morning air. It must have been something in the tea, he thought, and turned around to thank the Scarlet Witch, but the cottage was gone.

Steve hurried home, vial clutched in his hand. The sun had nearly risen by the time he arrived. On his front stoop, he saw a dark, hooded mass, blade in hand whittling a block of wood.

“Bucky?”

Bucky looked up at him and smiled. “Never took you for a one-night-stand kind of man. Who is she? Why are you holding a shield?”

Steve opened and closed his mouth several times, and when he finally understood, he could feel his whole face turn red. “First of all, I would never. I mean — a woman? You think I like women? Good god, Buck, we have a lot of catching up to do.”

Bucky’s eyebrows were nearly to his hairline, but Steve had no time to analyze facial expressions. He stepped past Bucky into the cabin, where his ma was still asleep. He put the kettle on, woke her up, and helped her take the potion. She was still delirious, but he knew it was only a matter of hours before the potion would take effect and she’d be feeling better.

When Steve returned to the living room, Bucky was standing in the doorway, letting all the cold in.

Steve shoved a log into the fireplace. “Come in or go out, but don’t just stand there.”

Bucky came in and shut the door behind him. “You still live in this dump?”

“Soon as you buy me a castle, I’ll move out, but until then it’s all we’ve got.” Steve swept a match against the brick and lit the tinder. The flame caught quickly and spread. Then the kettle began to whistle and he set about his morning chores. Bucky helped like he used to when they were kids. It felt like nothing had really changed at all.

Bucky was holding the ladder against the apple tree while Steve searched the eaves for something worth picking. "What about those wolves?" Bucky called up.

“Duked it out,” Steve called back.

“And you won.”

He looked down at Bucky from the ladder. “’Course I won.”

“Against a pack of wolves.”

“Yep,” Steve said and, giving up, sighed. “This is _fruitless_.”

“I hate you,” Bucky replied, for good reason. “Let me try.”

Steve climbed down. “There’s nothing there, Buck, I’m —“

But Bucky was already climbing up the ladder and hauling himself into the higher branches that Steve could never reach. Suddenly an apple fell and hit Steve on the head. He bent down to pick it up.

“You gotta catch ‘em, ya meathead,” Bucky called from above. Another apple fell, and this time Steve caught it. He picked up his bag and began catching all the falling apples. Some of them looked like they used to, shiny and golden, as big as his fist.

Soon the bag was full, and Bucky climbed back down.

“Buck,” Steve said, looking at their haul, “this is so much.”

Bucky clapped Steve’s shoulder. “Let’s go sell them.”

Like old times, they went into town, from shop to shop, house to house, and sold their apples and collected their coin. It was a sunny day, mild, and the usual village mist had dissipated. Steve only saw one member of the royal guard and he was asleep at his post.

Bucky and Steve took a seat on the bridge, legs swinging over the river as they ate lunch, cheese and bread and a bit of cured ham.

“Hey, I never asked,” Steve said. “What are you doing in town?”

Bucky shrugged. “Passing through.”

“To where? From where?”

“From here to there,” Bucky said with a smile that told Steve it was a stupid question.

Steve punched Bucky’s shoulder. “And what’s with the Thanos armor?”

Bucky picked at his tattered black attire. “This? Found it on a dead guard. Thought it looked cool.”

“How’d he die?”

Bucky pointed to what was clearly a stab-hole in the garment. Steve thought the armor was unstabbable. “Gonna guess it was the dagger in his heart. But who knows.”

“And what about the scar?”

Bucky looked into the middle distance, and said ominously, “Knife fight," and said nothing more about it.

They talked for a long time. Bucky explained that when he left, he had wanted to go tell Steve, begged to go say goodbye, but family left when they left and there was nothing he could do about it. Steve asked what happened after that but Bucky changed the subject, and Steve didn’t think it was his business to pry.

When they returned to their apple-selling, there were a few people out and about. On their way to visit the blacksmith, Bucky plucked an apple from the bag and threw it at Steve. Steve caught it.

“Come on, Buck, don’t mess around with the product.”

But Bucky only took another apple and threw it at Steve, who caught it with his free hand.

“I’m serious, stop it,” Steve said.

Bucky grinned and threw a third apple. Steve was forced to throw one of the apples into his other hand to catch the third. When Bucky threw a fourth apple, Steve had no choice but to juggle them. He hadn’t juggled in ages, but the muscle memory was still there. Bucky took a few apples of his own and began to juggle them too, and then they were tossing them back and forth, doing all their well-rehearsed tricks, while people gathered around to watch. Soon coins were being thrown at their feet, and people were clapping, and laughing, and somewhere close by, music began to play. And for a moment, things were exactly how they used to be.

* * *

Steve’s coin purse was heavier than it had ever been.

“Let’s buy a keg,” Bucky said.

“No way,” Steve told him. “I have to save this. Winter is coming.”

“’Winter is coming,’” Bucky repeated. “You sound like that one guy.”

“Wrong canon.”

“What?”

Before Steve could reply, Bucky grabbed his arm and pointed. Steve looked over and saw the sweets shop, the door open as if beckoning them inside. As kids, they could never afford any candy, and so they only pressed their faces to the glass and looked.

“Come on, dude. We’re loaded. Let’s go wild,” Bucky said. Steve didn’t have the strength to say no.

* * *

They arrived back at Steve’s house loudly singing, and Steve had to shush Bucky before they went inside. They hadn’t had anything to drink but they were both at peak sugar rush which lent itself to foot races (Bucky won), arm wrestling (Bucky won), and regular wrestling (Bucky won, and Steve absolutely did not mind).

It had been a wonderful day, made even better by walking into the cabin and finding Ma sitting up in her rocking chair, a pot of lamb stew on the stove.

“My stars and garters,” she said when Bucky entered. “Is that James Barnes?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bucky said.

They hugged, and Ma leaned back and patted his wide shoulders, touched his stubbled cheeks. “Look how you’ve grown. Tall as a weed.”

“And just as unruly,” Bucky said.

Ma and Bucky talked while Steve finished up the stew and sliced the bread. They ate together at the table and Bucky told stories of his travels that sounded like fictions — a man with wings who could fly great distances, an archer who could hit any target, a supposed god who could beckon lighting from the sky. Steve felt full for the first time in years, not just from food but from laughter and joy and a day well spent.

He could tell his ma was getting tired, so he helped her to bed. Outside it had begun to snow, a brutal wind beating against the cabin. Steve told Bucky, “You’re welcome to stay. You can have my bed.”

“And where would you sleep?” Bucky asked.

“In front of the fire I guess.”

Back when they were kids, when Bucky stayed the night, they would construct forts out of blankets and pillows and sleep out in front of the fire on cold nights, staying up late and playing games and talking, until Ma would get up and tell them both to get some sleep. Sometimes Steve only pretended to sleep, though, and he’d wake up and watch Bucky sleep for as long as he could, thinking about the day it would be just the two of them, traveling along the open road like they always said they would.

“You’re too damn old to be sleeping on the floor,” Bucky said.

“Then let’s both sleep on the floor.”

Steve realized they were standing very close to one another, such that he had to crane his neck up to look Bucky in the eye. Bucky’s gaze fell to Steve’s lips. Steve, whom we have already established is an idiot, had no idea what that meant and so did not think a single thought about it.

“Fine,” Bucky said.

“Fine,” Steve said.

Steve laid out some pillows and blankets, got ready for bed, put another log on the fire, and by the time he finally went to lie down, Bucky was already out cold.

* * *

Steve awoke in the middle of the night to a strange scratching sound outside. The fire had dwindled to embers and Bucky was nowhere to be found. He put on his cool-looking jacket and even-cooler-looking boots and lit a torch. Outside, the snow had fallen in a thick sheet over the grass, and the wind was blisteringly cold.

He went out to the magic apple tree, where he saw a pack of wolves digging at the roots.

“Hey!” Steve shouted. “Hey, get away from there!”

How did they know about the stone? Steve didn’t know what would happen to the tree if the stone was dug up, but it probably wasn’t good.

Steve swung the torch at the wolves to try to scare them away. “Leave it alone!”

The wolves were unafraid of the fire, and it only seemed to make them angry. They advanced on him, and Steve stepped back toward the cabin, but stopped when he heard growling coming from behind. They had him surrounded, but Steve kept swinging the torch. They attacked him. He hit one and it yelped and fell, rolling around in the snow to put out the flaming fur. Teeth sank into Steve’s arm, his thigh. He shouted in pain.

Suddenly the dark wolf arrived, a black spot across the white snow, and went for the throat of the wolf who was biting into Steve’s leg. The other wolves attacked the dark wolf. Unable to hold himself up any longer, Steve fell, the snow red with his blood, and dragged himself back toward the cabin. He made it to the apple barrel and bit into the plumpest, shiniest apple he could find. Instantly the pain in his body dissipated and his wounds closed. Outside, he listened to the growling and howling of the fight, and he was grateful his ma was a heavy sleeper.

Finally there was silence. Fearing the worst, Steve opened the door, expecting to find the dark wolf dead. But no, it was sitting patiently at the foot of the tree, over the hole where the pack had been digging. Alone. The snow all around it was red with blood. It appeared unharmed.

Steve went back inside to grab a bone from supper and brought it back out. He stepped carefully over to the dark wolf and held out the bone. The wolf took it carefully. Steve reached out a little farther, hesitant, but the wolf made no move to run away. He placed his hand on the wolf’s head and pet it. It lay down and began chewing on the bone, and Steve scratched behind its enormous ears.

“Thank you for helping me,” Steve said. “Twice.” If the wolf understood him, it made no indication. Steve’s thumb passed over a divot in the wolf’s head, and upon closer inspection, by the light of the moon, he could see a faint scar down its face.

* * *

When Steve went into town the next morning, he found Bucky on the stoop of the bakery eating a sweetroll.

“You’ll never guess what happened last night,” Steve said.

Bucky broke his sweetroll in half and handed it over, while Steve told the story of the wolves digging up the roots of the tree, and the dark wolf that came to save him.

“Sounds like you have a friend,” Bucky said.

“Guess I do,” Steve replied, looking down at the sweetroll in his hand, the dried blood still caked under his nails.

* * *

That evening, Steve glanced outside and saw the dark wolf again. It needed a name, Steve thought, and noted how it sat beneath the tree as if at attention, flakes of white snow peppering its black fur. Like a winter soldier.

* * *

Ma spent a few days up and about but then quickly succumbed to her illness once more. The potion wasn’t lasting as long as it used to, but Steve had run out of apples to get more. Though it should have been time for the harvest, no new apples grew on the tree, as if the tree had gotten mad at the wolves digging at it, or maybe just afraid they would return. Steve knew trees couldn't think, but he couldn't shake the feeling that it was tired of being alive.

The weather began to turn, fall to winter in the blink of an eye. Snow fell in thick soft clumps at night and melted under the sun during the day. Steve spent long afternoons with Bucky, picking up odd jobs where they could, occasionally juggling when there were enough people around. The royal guard’s presence seemed to dwindle, although no one knew why. Only the most lethargic and incompetent of them remained, the ones that could be bribed and bought, who minded their own business.

Steve had always been a present-minded person, but he couldn’t help but think about what was to come: a long winter, his mother’s passing, Bucky leaving, the magic tree unable to bear more fruit. He thought of these things only on nights he couldn’t sleep, and often gave up to go visit the Winter Soldier, who kept his post beneath the tree from dusk to dawn. It let Steve pet him, and sit at his side, and sometimes curled around him to keep him warm.

Steve found himself talking to the wolf, saying things he couldn’t tell anybody else. His hopes, his fears. He told the Winter Soldier about Bucky, and what their friendship meant to him, and how he wouldn’t be able to bear it when Bucky left again. The wolf seemed to listen as if it could understand, chin resting on Steve’s thigh, eyes wide and enraptured.

“I have feelings for him, you know? Like, feelings-feelings. _Feelings_. When we were kids, I thought it was just a phase. I thought it would go away. But it never did. I missed him every day he was gone, and now that he’s back, it’s like, I should tell him, but I don’t want to risk it. What if he freaks out? What if he leaves again?”

The Winter Soldier did a very peculiar thing, then. It sat up and licked Steve’s face.

Steve wiped the slobber off. “What was that for? Are you trying to tell me something?” The wolf’s nose was very close to Steve’s nose, and it was looking straight into Steve’s eyes. Somehow the wolf was giving him an expression that said, _You’re a fucking idiot_.

“Oh like you’d do anything different,” Steve said.

The next day, Bucky was nowhere to be found. Steve finished his rounds and ended up at the tavern to see if Natasha had seen Bucky, but when he entered, he found Bucky sitting at the bar drinking a pint of ale. Steve took up the stool next to him and Nat came over with a pint for Steve. He took it and thanked her and drank silently while Bucky did the same.

After a long while, Bucky said, “Come on, I’ll walk you home.”

“You don’t have to, Buck.”

“It’s fine. I’m headed that direction anyway.”

“Why?”

Bucky opened his mouth like he’d just stuck his foot in it. “No reason. Come on.”

So they walked the long lonely road back to the cabin, still not saying much of anything. The main street had been shoveled and mounds of snow lined the road, until eventually it branched off into the narrow path Steve walked every day to and from his cabin, tracing the divots of his steps back and forth. The sun was setting, and the sky was the kind of deep orange that it only ever got in the first weeks of winter.

“I gotta talk to you about something,” Bucky said.

Oh no, Steve thought, and braced himself for Bucky to announce his imminent departure.

“You know when we were kids and I was teaching you how to swim?”

“Yeah.” It seemed both forever ago and like it happened yesterday, Bucky holding Steve’s skinny body up in the water, teaching him how to float. That had been the best summer of his life.

“And that time I looked away for just a second, and suddenly you were drowning. And I had to find you and pull you out and you weren’t breathing. Then you coughed up all that water and ten minutes later you jumped back in, like nothing happened.”

“Yeah? So?”

“I,” Bucky began, but stopped. He had the pinched look on his face he got whenever he was doing something difficult. Then his expression softened and he said, “That was really fucking stupid of you.” And he leaned down, grabbed up a fistful of snow, and lobbed it at Steve’s head.

“Hey!”

Steve swept a handful of snow back at Bucky. It quickly derailed into a full-blown snowball fight, and somehow they ended up in a wrestling match, rolling around in the snow, ears and fingers numb but bodies overheating beneath their layers, and Bucky ended up pinning Steve down as he always did. Steve would never admit it, but he liked losing to Bucky, liked the feeling of both of his wrists held down by just one of Bucky’s big hands.

Bucky’s eyes fell to Steve’s mouth again. Steve licked his lips. Bucky kissed him, a press of warm lips and a cold nose, and then it was over. Bucky climbed to his feet and helped Steve up.

“I better head back,” Bucky said. “I’ll see you.” Then he ran off.

* * *

That night a blizzard came. The wind whistled through the cabin. Even Ma woke up to ask what was happening, and he had to reassure her everything was fine. Steve could barely keep the fire lit. He piled all the blankets he had onto her. He looked out the window to see if the Winter Soldier had arrived yet, but he couldn’t tell. The snow was too thick. He decided to go check, and only made it a few feet before he sank into the snow and was unable to pull himself out.

“Help!” he called. “Help!”

A moment later, he felt a tugging at the back of his collar. Something hauled him out of the snowbank and dropped him off on the front step of the cabin. It was the Winter Soldier, who was shivering nearly as bad as Steve was.

With numb hands and feet, Steve managed to get the door open and trekked inside. He beckoned to the wolf to follow him, but the wolf hesitated.

“Come on,” Steve said. “I’m not letting you stay out there. No one’s coming for the tree tonight.”

Sheepishly, the wolf entered, and wiped his snowy paws off on the welcome mat. Despite the consideration of this gesture, it then shook itself dry and proceeded to splatter the cabin with snow.

“Thanks,” Steve said, and the wolf gave him a look that said, _Sorry_.

Steve knelt by the fireplace and stoked the fire back to life. He changed his clothes and hung his wet ones to dry over the fire. He couldn’t seem to stop shivering. The wolf curled up nearby and watched him intently. Then it got up and nipped at Steve’s sleeve. In the small cabin, the wolf’s enormity was far more apparent.

“What?” Steve asked.

The wolf whined and nudged Steve’s arm. Steve pet the wolf’s head, and the wolf lay down beside Steve and curled completely around him.

“Oh,” Steve said, realizing the wolf just wanted him to be comfortable and warm. So Steve settled against its soft fur, and let the sound of its deep breathing and slow heartbeat lull him to sleep.

* * *

When Steve awoke the next morning, a blanket had been thrown over him, a pillow placed under his head, and the wolf was gone.

* * *

The blizzard lasted for days. Snow came up around the windows and Steve couldn’t even open his front door. He had no idea if the Winter Soldier was out there. He had no idea where Bucky was or what he was doing. Probably staying at the inn and maybe helping Natasha around the tavern. Ma stopped eating, but they were running out of food anyway. Steve tried to ration what he had left, but after a week, he was down to a small bowl of grain and water once a day, begging his ma to sit up and eat just a few bites. He barely had enough wood to keep a fire going. When he was down to his last few logs, he was beginning to wonder if he would die here.

On the eighth day, some moonlight broke through the snow-covered window panes, and Steve heard a scraping sound against the door. He hadn’t eaten for a day and a half. He couldn’t stoke the fire above a low flame, and he was so cold he had started seeing shadows moving at the corners of his vision.

“Go away!” he said by the door. He almost couldn’t recognize his own voice — hoarse and thin, desperate.

The scratching stopped. Steve waited a moment and opened the door. Someone had cleared away a bit of the snow so that it only came up to his waist, and there, like an offering, he found three dead hares and a pile of kindling.

* * *

Ma hadn’t eaten in days. Her cheeks were sallow and her eyes open, unseeing. She drew in ragged breaths. Steve had to go find Dr. Banner. The sun was out and the snow was beginning to melt, but Steve knew he’d still have difficulty making it into town. He would have better luck going to the Scarlet Witch’s cottage and asking for more potion, but he had run out of apples to trade.

But he did have one thing left.

Steve grabbed a shovel and dug his way out of the cabin. When he reached the magic tree, not a single snowflake sat on it. The leaves remained green and the grass around it still grew. It was even warm around the tree, a sweet breeze like early spring. He could see no apples on its branches, though, and knew then that none would ever grow again. The tree was dying with his Ma. He pierced the shovel into the soft earth, and began to dig.

He dug and dug, until his hands blistered and his muscles ached, and after many hours he finally found it, the glittering yellow stone his grandfather had planted decades ago. Roots had grown around it as if to protect it, like ribs around a heart.

Steve looked up at the tree and said, “I’m sorry.”

He plucked the stone from the earth and climbed out of the hole. The tree shuddered as if in pain, its leaves shrinking, falling. By the light of the full moon, he could see its bark grey rapidly from the roots all the way up. Eventually it fell still, wilted and drooping, dead.

Stone gripped in his fist, Steve ran into the deep dark woods.

* * *

The eaves were so thick that hardly any snow had fallen, and the woods were deathly still and silent. He had brought a lantern with him, but the darkness seemed to eat up all the light. He moved slowly and carefully, as quiet as he could, the stone digging into his palm.

His only warning was a pair of glowing eyes just a few feet in front of him, and then the wolf attacked him. He dropped his lantern to cover his face with his arms. The glass cracked open and the flame caught on the brush. The fire grew from branch to branch. The wolf bit into his arm but still he wouldn’t let go of the stone. The wolf could smell the stone, he thought, or sense it somehow. It was the only explanation for how the pack had found the tree, how it had found him now.

Steve gritted his teeth, knowing he had no apples to heal him, and no more would ever grow. But no blood came from the wound. Another wolf attacked him, but he felt no pain at all. His skin hadn’t been pierced. He kicked out with his foot and a wolf went flying. Its body slammed into a tree and it fell limp. The entire forest was now alight from the fire which had engulfed them.

In the light of the fire he could see the Winter Soldier leaping into the fray. The pack seemed to have grown exponentially. There were dozens of them, all jumping out of the fire and into the fight.

Steve couldn’t let go of the stone, which had clearly granted him powers while he held it in his hand. With his free hand he grabbed a wolf by the scruff of the neck and threw it. For a beast that was bigger than him, it seemed to weigh nothing. The smoke stung his eyes and made it difficult to breathe. Fire was closing in, and there was only a narrow gap remaining in the direction of the Scarlet Witch’s cottage.

Steve caught the Winter Soldier’s gaze, which seemed to say, _Run. I’ll hold them off._ Steve didn’t want to leave, but he couldn’t stay, either. The smoke would kill him, and if it didn’t, the fire would. Reluctantly, he ran. When he looked back, he saw the Winter Soldier throwing itself in front of the path, blocking the passage of the pack.

* * *

Steve pounded on the Scarlet Witch’s door. “Please! Open up!”

The Scarlet Witch opened the door wearing a pink bathrobe and matching bunny slippers, looking confused. “You don’t have to shout. I know you're coming before you get here.”

He held out the stone. “Please. I need more potion. My mother is dying.”

The Scarlet Witch hesitated. “Perhaps it is time to let her go.”

“ _No_ ,” Steve said. “Just. Just a little longer. Please.”

“When you keep a person alive past their time, they suffer.”

“I can’t lose her. Please. Just take it. Grow your own apples.”

She stared at the stone a long moment. “You do not know the power of this gift you bring me. Many have died looking for this stone.”

“I don’t want it. Take it.”

She did, and held it in her palm like it was the most precious and fragile thing in the world. Maybe it was. Steve didn’t know, and he no longer cared.

He followed her inside, where she plucked a vial from a shelf and handed it to him. “It is the last that I have. I make it from your seeds. Without them, I can’t make more. Use it wisely.”

Potion in hand, Steve ran back toward the cabin, but without the stone, his lungs constricted and he struggled to breathe. In the distance he could see the fire, could hear the loud snapping and crackling, howling wolves in the distance.

He stopped when he heard a pained, soft whine in the brush. It sounded familiar. Though he knew the clock was ticking, his feet wouldn’t take him any farther. He veered into the brush until he found the Winter Soldier, on its side, struggling to breathe. It was bleeding badly, its fur singed. It seemed to relax when it saw Steve, as if relieved to find he was okay.

Steve knelt down and placed a hand against the wolf’s heart. It was beating more slowly than normal. The wolf didn’t have much time left. Neither did Steve’s mother. Steve looked at the vial in his hand. With his mother, he would only be delaying the inevitable. The Scarlet Witch was right. His ma was suffering.

Steve pulled the stopper from the vial and poured the potion onto the worst of the wolf’s wounds. The wolf whined in pain, but Steve watched as the bleeding stopped, the burnt fur grew back. He poured the potion on every wound he could find, until the bottle was empty, and he sat back on his heels and waited.

The wolf’s wounds healed, but it didn’t stop there. Its fur began to shrink, its paws elongated into fingers, ears rounding and snout shortening into a human nose. Steve couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He blinked, and suddenly the wolf was no longer a wolf, but a man, unconscious, lying there in filthy old armor.

“Bucky?”

Bucky groaned, and his eyes blinked open. Blearily, he said, “Steve?”

“I’m here. I’m okay.”

Bucky sat up and hugged him. “I thought you were going to freeze to death in that shitty cabin.” He pulled back. “Did you get the potion?”

Steve held out the empty vial. Bucky stared at it.

“I had to do it. You were dying,” Steve said, though he didn’t know the wolf had been Bucky at the time. Or maybe he did know and hadn’t wanted to admit it to himself. “It’s her time anyway.”

“What about the tree?”

“I dug up the stone. Gave it to the Scarlet Witch.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“That’s the safest place it can be.” Bucky stood with a groan and held his hand out. “Come on, we should be with her when she goes.”

"What about the fire?"

"The witch can handle it."

* * *

Dr. Banner gave Steve’s ma the strongest pain medication he had. She passed peacefully just two days later, with Bucky and Steve at her side. The snow melted, and the whole town came to the funeral to pay their respects. The royal guard seemed to disappear overnight, and the town returned to the bustling hub it once was.

But the young apple-picker had no more apples to pick.

Bucky arrived at Steve’s doorstep one morning, a rucksack slung over his shoulder. This was it, Steve thought. He lost his ma, his tree, his profession, and he had finally run out of pomade. His hair looked awful. And now he was going to lose his best friend, too. They hadn’t talked about the kiss in the snow, or the fact that Steve had confessed his feelings to Bucky while he’d been a werewolf, or the fact that Bucky was a werewolf at all.

“Are you leaving town?” Steve asked.

“‘Fraid so,” Bucky said, kicking aside what little snow remained on the stoop.

“Why?”

“Where the Outriders go, I follow.”

“Outriders?”

“Thanos’ guard. They’re looking for the stones.”

“Stones? Plural?”

“You didn’t think you had the only magic stone, did you?”

“Will you just come in and tell me what the hell is going on?”

So Bucky came inside and set his rucksack down, and Steve poured them each a cup of tea, and Bucky told him the whole story.

Shortly after Bucky’s family moved, he was kidnapped and recruited into Thanos’ army. They turned him into a werewolf, and for years he became a mindless soldier, pillaging towns, assassinating royals. Then he was sent to kill a man made of iron, who, using an enchanted dagger, stabbed Bucky in the heart and broke him of his brainwashing. The Iron Man explained that Thanos was collecting the magic stones to make something called an Infinity Gauntlet, and once he found all of them, he would be able to command all magic, time, the very fabric of reality. But the Iron Man had a plan called the Avengers Initiative, which Bucky thought was a bit ridiculous as a name but could agree that it was catchy. He knew Steve had one of the stones and demanded to be put on the mission to protect him.

“So we don’t need to get the stone from the Scarlet Witch?” Steve asked.

“She’s one of us. So is Banner. And Natasha. You didn’t realize half this town was looking after you.”

Steve had to sit on that a moment. “I don’t understand. Why didn’t you just ask? I would have given it to you.”

“That tree was your bread and butter, Steve. I couldn’t ask you to give it up. Not while your ma was still sick. I figured, I couldn't take it, but I could protect it until you were ready to let it go.”

“And then?"

Bucky thumbed over the chip in the teacup. “And then I was going to see if you wanted to join me.”

“Join you.”

“On the road.”

“You mean, be part of the Avengers.”

Bucky cringed at the name. “Yeah, that.”

“But — I don’t have any powers.”

“You can juggle.”

“I don’t think juggling will defeat Thanos.”

“You never know.” Bucky paused a long moment and said, “You could be a werewolf, if you wanted.”

Steve thought about it. He’d spent his whole life weak, frail. Dependent on a magic tree to provide for him and his family. But he didn’t have a family anymore. No, he thought, he did have a family. His family was Bucky. Now he had the chance to hit the road like he’d always wanted, traveling, doing good work. He thought of the Winter Soldier, its fur beneath his hands, its strength and warmth. He wanted that life. He wanted all of it.

“Does it hurt?” Steve asked.

“It doesn’t _not_ hurt. The Iron Man would make it easier on you than it was on me, though.”

Steve thought about it a moment longer, and said, “Yeah. I’d like to be a werewolf.”

* * *

That night, they lay under a blanket fort by the fire. In the morning, they would set off to find the Iron Man.

“I have another question,” Steve said for the hundredth time that day, head propped on his hand. “How’d you get that scar?”

“I told you,” Bucky said. “Bear fight.”

“You said it was a knife fight.”

“The bear was holding a knife.”

“Bears can’t hold knives.”

“People can’t turn into wolves either, but here we are.”

"Was it a werebear?"

"No, it was a bear-bear."

“I have another question."

Bucky sighed.

Steve had managed to get very smart very quickly, and now that he had all the pieces of the puzzle it was difficult to deny the very apparent truth that Bucky was just as in love with him as he was with Bucky. “In your wolf form, can you understand English?”

Bucky was lying on his back, eyes closed. “Yes.”

“And you were listening when I said all that, about you?”

Bucky paused. “Yes.”

“And that’s why you kissed me.”

Silence.

“You could kiss me again, if you wanted.”

Bucky did not need to be told twice. In an instant, he was on Steve, cupping his face in hand, kissing him. The fire in the fireplace crackled happily, and the cabin was quiet and warm. Outside, the snow continued to melt, the early life of springtime stirring deep beneath the earth.


End file.
